The first thing Annika noticed was that no one reached for anything.
They were seated on low stone benches worn smooth by centuries of use, a wide slab of dark earth-stone between them that could have been a table or an altar depending on how it was approached. On the Moss-Badger side, hands rested on knees or folded into sleeves. On the human side, Evan had already half-shifted forward before Annika caught his sleeve and eased him back with two fingers.
Too fast.
Across from them, the trade elder did not move. He was older than the others they'd met—hair greyed to ash at the edges and his eyes were clear and watchful.
"Before goods," he said, voice low and even, "we speak rules."
Annika inclined her head immediately, Evan following. The elder continued without acknowledging either response.
"Only those recognised by their Lord speak for a Clan in trade, words spoken by others carry no weight—and cause offence if mistaken for authority."
Evan opened his mouth, Annika pressed two fingers lightly into his knee, he closed it.
"Haggling," the elder said, "is not an insult, it is also not expected. You speak your need, we speak ours. If they do not meet, we sit in silence. Silence is thinking, not rejection."
Annika nodded once, careful not to overdo it.
"Over-eagerness signals desperation," the elder went on. "Desperation invites imbalance and imbalance invites predation."
That, Annika thought, tracked far too well with everything else they'd learned here.
"And agreements?" Evan asked, measured this time.
The elder's gaze slid to him. Not sharp, assessing.
"Are remembered," he said. "By those who matter."
So no paper contracts and signatures. Annika filed that away with a faint chill.
When the elder finally gestured to the goods laid out beside them—covered, deliberately—the shift was subtle but undeniable. Permission had been given.
What surprised Evan first was how little of it mattered the way he'd expected.
Salt, when revealed, drew interest—but not hunger. The Moss-Badgers leaned closer, murmured among themselves, then leaned back again. One sniffed it, another weighed it in his palm and returned it to the cloth without comment.
"Hoarded salt," the elder said mildly, "is suspicious. It suggests fear of scarcity—or intent to control others."
Evan swallowed. "We… store for winter."
"As we all do," the elder replied. "But excess without context unsettles balance."
Metal tools fared worse. A knife Evan had considered decent—a clean edge, sturdy grip—was turned once, then set aside. The elder's brow creased.
"Poorly shaped metal insults the labour it came from," he said. "Better no blade than a careless one."
Annika winced internally. Earth logic would have called it functional, here, intent mattered as much as outcome.
Cloth, on the other hand, drew real attention.
Not the brightest pieces, not the rare dyes. The simple, tightly woven bolts—even colour, even tension, no rushed edges. Fingers pressed into them, stretched them slightly, then nodded.
"Careful work," the elder said. "This holds value."
Evan's understanding shifted, something clicking into place. Value here wasn't scarcity alone, it was effort, time and respect for the creator.
Food storage came next, and here the overlap with Deepway's needs was immediate.
Cold stone chambers, airflow channels carved with deliberate slants, roots hung upside-down in bundles dusted with fine ash—not for flavour, but for insects and fermentation pits sealed with resin and earth instead of salt.
"Too much preservation weakens food," one of the elders remarked. "Living things remember how they were treated."
Annika wrote that down.
Smoke, they learned, was used sparingly. Roots deterred pests, certain leaves were layered between stores to ward off mold. No poison or traps that left residue.
"Winter food must still want to be eaten," the elder said. "If it resists, it will cost you strength."
When the subject of currency surfaced, Evan felt his shoulders tense.
Shards were acknowledged—but dismissed as tools, not wealth. Favour, however, carried weight.
"Debts are communal," the elder said. "One hoards obligation, all suffer. If one cannot repay, the Clan absorbs the cost. Trust breaks only when hidden."
Evan's chest tightened. That was uncomfortably close to how CP already functioned.
Seasonal trade rules were broached next.
Winter trade was survival-only. No profit seeking, no leverage. Those who tried were remembered—for years. Annika spoke of some trade habits from Earth.
"Some habits from your world," the elder added, gaze flicking briefly to Annika, "would see traders quietly excluded."
Annika inclined her head again. "We are… adjusting."
The regional map came next—not drawn, but spoken.
Trade followed territory, not roads. Passage was permission-based. Neutral markets existed seasonally and only when the land allowed it.
Annika realised with a slow certainty that Deepway's location would define its future far more than its resources.
When the elder spoke of the southeastern Molekin, his tone shifted to practical respect. Underground traders, efficient but blunt.
"They dislike traders who smile too much," he warned.
Evan didn't smile at all.
The Hawkfolk of the northwest were described with careful emphasis: punctual, prideful, precise.
"Never arrive late," the elder said. "Not once."
The Deerfolk traded in cycles and ritual value, not material scarcity. Iron was taboo during lunar festivals and antler grooming was sacred.
Annika's mind raced.
The Night-Owl Clan elicited the longest pause.
"They trade knowledge," the elder said. "And silence. Do not ask why they appear and do not follow them."
The Ice-Dragon Clans were mentioned last among the distant powers. No direct trade, only intermediaries, give gifts before negotiation and never warmth-based items.
"This is not a direction you rush toward," the elder said flatly.
When the Roc Clan was mentioned, Evan muttered under his breath, "So… gods pretending not to be."
The elder did not correct him.
Forest Boars earned a sharp warning. Trade was possible but dangerous, so only when the Clan was strong or desperate enough.
River and Shell Clans, by contrast, were cooperative—but territorial about water flow. Blocking waterways was unforgivable.
By the time the elder described the late-autumn caravan market—the brief stopover of traders returning from the Great Windfall Festival—Annika felt the weight of it settle.
Three to five days.
Rare seeds, rune contracts and foreign knowledge, a doorway that did not stay open.
Trade safety followed naturally. Smuggling and theft.
"Theft during trade invites retaliation," the elder said. "Smugglers do not endanger themselves. They endanger everyone."
Annika thought of future refugees, of desperation and of what people justified when hungry.
Craft exchange softened the room.
Humans asked about living materials. Moss-Badgers examined human tools with quiet curiosity. Non-metal reinforcements were demonstrated. Bone, sinew and bark.
Trust here was built sideways. At the end, there was no formal closing. Just watching.
The elder observed how Annika handled storage goods—slow, respectful. How Evan waited, even when clearly eager.
Finally, the elder nodded once.
"When the caravans come," he said, voice low, "I will guide you."
Both Annika and Evan stilled.
"Not as guests," the elder continued. "As traders."
The weight of it settled. Conditional trust, public association. Entry into the world—not by force, but by recognition.
Annika bowed, Evan followed and neither spoke.